Making Robots
by ThunderSmurf
Summary: After "Vows," the DC Dollhouse recruits Dr. Saunders to be their GP but sooner than she'd like, she finds herself sitting opposite Adelle DeWitt, sipping tea and signing a contract. Then Topher has an idea. Rated K until ch 4.
1. Chapter 1

[Tabula Rasa]

It got easier and easier not to turn around the further she got from the house. She'd been in the dollhouse for years and had no extra expenses. A small fortune had been adding up in a metal box under her bed. She was uncomfortable with strangers keeping her money. She didn't like the idea that she might not be able to get to it when she needed it most. Looking back, she figured the paranoia must be her own. There's no reason to imprint the victim of a conspiracy with a conspiracy theory. The conspirators would have to be suicidal or have a really twisted sense of irony. Then again, Topher had both in spades. Maybe it was his idea of a joke.

The important thing was that she had her money, and she had some food and a few blankets and a fake ID she'd made using Priya's license. She doubted it would be missed until Echo was released. Nobody ever checked records except for her.

She wondered who would replace her. Wondered if they'd be competent. She fiddled with the radio, looking for some classical music. She'd never liked music with words, she found it too personal. Instrumental music was beautiful and respectable and she'd never be asked to explain why she liked it. She had an irrational fear of explaining her tastes. She'd always kept her office bland with nondescript pictures, the kind that came with the frames, so no one would ask. It wasn't always like that, but then, with the trauma, it made sense to put up defenses.

She'd only been listening for a few minutes when the station cut out. She fiddled with the nob, but none of the other stations would play either. She was in the middle of Los Angeles. What was going on? Then a voice issued from the radio. "Dr. Claire Saunders? We'd like to make you an offer."

* * *

---

The plane didn't look safe. Claire bit her lip, hard. The pain steadied her. She was able to board. When she disembarked, an unmarked van was waiting to pick her up. She took the woman's hand, hitched up her skirt, sat on the forward-facing seat. A handler. Her handler? The woman smiled at her, a look of concerned understanding on her face. Claire twisted her hands together. Said nothing. The van stopped. Something in Claire's stomach twisted. It was the same feeling you get when you make a mistake. What a double standard. Only free people make mistakes. The woman's phone rang. She glanced at Claire apologetically before answering. "Yes, I'll be there in five minutes...I'm in the van...Parking lot...No. I'll get her. Yes. I understand that Halverson's time is of the utmost value." She rolled her eyes. "Sir. Yes sir." She snapped the phone shut. "We're on a schedule. I'd love to give you the tour, but you've already got a patient headed your way. Aphrodite. She glitched on a criminal engagement." Claire nodded. It wasn't uncommon. Some actives learned how to throw off their imprints after a few years.

"Did they say what kind of damage?"

"A hand gun shot her in the thy from about 10 feet."

"Tell them to dope her and strap her down."

"It's being taken care of. The elevator's waiting for you." The door slid open, and a man in an official uniform helped her down the steps. "Good luck." Claire nodded.

---

Aphrodite survived the surgery, but as soon as she stabilized, Claire was bombarded with other patients. One active had skinned his knee, another had been bitten by a spider. Claire found the disinfectant and watched for swelling and red streaks. She read through all three active's files and forgot about dinner. At eleven o'clock, the woman from the van led her through the maze of square hallways to her room. It was small, with a cot in one corner and air ducts lacing the ceiling. A wave of Deja Vu washed over her, but she didn't comment. It had been such a long day. She said her "goodnight"s and crashed.

The next few days were as busy as the first. Lots of cuts and bruises, a few broken bones, and once, an active with severe burns. The handlers came and went. Claire was polite, but she didn't talk longer than she had to. She was not here to make friends. She was here to survive.

On Monday there was a lull and she was able to explore the house.


	2. Chapter 2

[DC]

The dollhouse here was different. The architecture was sharp, the colors were white and gray, the lights, bright. Fluorescents. Harsh. Claire hated the way the rooms went out. You couldn't see into the corners because they were around other corners. Someone could hide back there and you wouldn't know. You'd be powerless. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and looked at the people.

When the LA dollhouse had first set up shop, they'd considered programming some people to be handlers. There were certainly enough recruits. Volunteers who weren't young or beautiful or whole, but they'd decided against it. It would be too risky. Individuals with active architecture are more susceptible to hacking, and if a handler glitched or got hacked, it could throw the whole system.

There was less pretense of goodness in DC. That didn't mean Claire couldn't do good here, she just had to remind herself to stay quiet when she felt a righteous speech coming on. They set her up with an office on one of the lower floors. She was comfortable there. The actives came and went. She reported to the handlers and occasionally got memos from the programmer about this or that. Everything was simple here. There were no conspiracy theories, no rogue actives slicing up her face. No one treating her like a fake. She was grateful, and she showed it by keeping her head down, but it was her job --her function-- to spot the programmer's mistakes, so she climbed the stairs to Bennett's office with a heavy heart, hoping against hope that everything would stay the same.


	3. Chapter 3

[Victim]

Bennett sat at her computer moving a 3D scan of Athena's brain around with the mouse. It had been hard at first, typing with one hand. She supposed she'd never be as fast as she once was, but that wasn't really what bothered her. What bothered her was the way she thought of that moment --thought of Caroline-- every time she was inconvenienced. The way people would look at her funny for the rest of her life, wondering about that moment, and Caroline had no idea. Caroline's body didn't even remember. The subject of an event should be the one to make the records, not the object. She was just an object. Just a body, left behind. Now she was a testament, a warning to others. Skeletons hanging in the harbor. She would never be Bennett Halverson now. She'd always be a victim. She'd always be the girl with her arm in a sling and it would never be alright. So when the doctor walked in, face scarred because of something someone else did, Bennett shut the monitor off and looked up, reminding herself that she was looking at a person, not a moment in time.


	4. Chapter 4

[It's a Circle, Go 'Round.]

"I didn't realize it was so common, imprinting dolls when a House is one member of staff short."

She reached out and put her hand lightly on the woman's lifeless left arm. "I'm sorry."

Bennett giggled. "Oh no! It's not what you think. My brain structure is completely organic. If you ate my brain, you wouldn't even get sick from pesticides. That is, if you were the brain eating type. I'm Bennett." She crammed her glasses onto her face with her good hand, trying to cover the awkward moment. Claire just looked at her and let it be awkward.

"I need to talk to you about Perrin."

"Did something go wrong with his physical? His new handler said everything was ship shape."

"I'm concerned about the repeat imprints. It could be wearing out the active architecture, especially since the imprint personality contains strands of his original self."

Bennett fiddled with the string of her glasses with her right hand. "No need to worry about that. Repetitive imprint damage is a myth."

"Pardon?"

"Rossum recently completed a study showing that the human brain reacts favorably to repeat imprints, and as for his original self strands, why would it matter if you're being imprinted with a new persona or an old one? The active architecture is built to take any artificial brain scan and the new pre-imprint injection prevents them from experiencing Deja Vu. You could potentially take a personality trait from a pig or a cat and it wouldn't harm the structure because they're all made of the same thing. Little flashing lights. A pulse is a pulse is a pulse. Harmless." The last word hung in the air. Heavy.

Claire thought it likely that the study was based on Rossum's checkbook and Bennett's explanation seemed a bit overcooked. Like an excuse used so many times that it sounds like truth. Claire opened her mouth, thought for a moment, then closed it again. She would file a report with Lipman. No need to quarrel like a child. The programmer was just doing her job after all. Doing as much as she could with the information she had. Bennett cast her a lopsided smile. There was hope on her face, and the smile was infectious. Claire's mouth twitched. It had been so long since she'd smiled. A real smile, not the sarcastic one she reserved for Topher. The bubble of happiness swelling in her chest burst as the elevator dinged and the door slid open. Athena was being wheeled in on a cart. She was strapped down. Claire's stomach twisted. Bennett got to her feet and hastened to the programming room. Claire followed her awkwardly. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm sorry, not to be rude-- would you mind leaving? I need to focus. Wasabi pea? But you really should go, I need to focus. Come back! Later--I need to--"

But Claire was already hurrying down the stairs.

--

A few days later, she was back. A few of the actives, Ulices, Athena, Hermes, Jupiter...they were loosing stamina, their reflexes were slow, Athena's speech had even begun to slur a little.

When she pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, she found Bennett typing furiously. Claire watched for a moment and realized that it was hard for her to use some of the basic key board short cuts with only one hand and it was slowing her down. A persistent beeping sound was emanating from the imprint room, and Bennett was between programming assistants.

"May I help?" She had almost said "Can I lend you a hand?" but thought it would be tasteless. Claire didn't like puns. Bennett smiled for a split second without looking up and Claire wondered if avoiding the pun was worse. Then she wondered when she'd begun to think like Topher. Nothing is mine. Nothing is mine.

"If you wouldn't mind shutting off that alarm..."

Claire ran to the imprint room and flicked the switch. The beeping stopped.

When she returned to the office, she found Bennett examining a small silver box with a circular pattern on the top. "Topher Brink."

Claire took a step back and nearly tripped over the coffee table. "Excuse me?"

"It's his tech. Have you seen it before?"

"Yes. He called it the C Cube, after Artimis Fowel. He didn't say what it did."

"From what I can tell, it can loop security footage remotely within a hundred yard radius, but that's not the difficult part. Useful, but those are baby steps compared to the other work he's done. So I looked closer, and I realized, it loops people too. Put this near an active, and they'll repeat themselves in a loop until you hit the kill switch."

"Defense against a team of actives. Why did he send it to you?"

"I'm supposed to figure out a countermeasure. Refutation, for a stronger argument."

Claire nodded. "I'll let you get back to that then. Some of the actives are experiencing a cognitive lag. Perhaps the chemical compounds in the pods have been adjusted?"

"Pods?"

"Where they sleep."

"I'll check the drawers. The compound was updated recently. I'm glad you're keeping track."

Claire descended the stairs (elevators gave her panic attacks) and wondered about Bennett. She was exactly the type of person Claire would love to spend time with, to be friends with, to smile with. But she was a programmer at the dollhouse. There was no way for that to end well. Did she have some sort of weird attraction toward people with god complexes? What did that say about her? Things were so fuzzy these days. She returned to her office, locked the door, picked up a scalpel. Routine makes you disappear against the back drop. That's the point. If that's the point, I should have let him kill me. All I want is to exist. Her hands were shaking a little. Shallow cuts. Claire twitched the hem of her lab coat out of the way so it wouldn't get stained. She concentrated on the pain until the anxiety had left her chest. Her mind cleared. Her breathing leveled. She fished around for some gauze and tape. When she died, there would be no corpse, only scars on someone else's flesh. She'd better make them count.


	5. Chapter 5

[Secrets, Games, and Searing Pain]

Bennett's heart was racing as she left the imprinting room to find Claire lounging against a wall.

"Hi!"

"Hi." something in Claire's expression made Bennett's blood hum, like she knew what was going on and was playing along. Bennett loved almost getting caught. It made the torture more than sport. Risk made it thrilling. We're wired wrong. Even me, she thought. Pain and pleasure on the same circuit. Maybe she could make someone who was wired correctly. Someone able to distinguish between similar sensations.

"Wasabi?"

Claire popped a handful into her mouth.

"They're spicy!" she exclaimed, resisting the urge to spit the horrid little green things into her palm.

Bennett giggled. "Never? You've never had wasabi peas?"

"I never really liked Japanese food. I prefer Mexican."

"The Mexican food on the east coast isn't very good."

"Just another thing I'm going to have to learn to live without."

They sat in silence for a moment. Claire was wondering what exactly the east coast did have to offer, and Bennett was mentally reviewing Claire's file. It was most interesting to spend time with a long term imprint. She could find out so much about a programmer by observing his tech and she'd been dying to learn more about Brink ever since his breakthrough. Using the brain to change the body was a new and exciting field. A direction Bennett hadn't even considered. If she figured out a way to implement it quietly, she could put an end to the side effects some of the dolls were experiencing from—well, it wasn't really torture. You couldn't torture an object. If there's no self, there's nothing to harm. She'd believed that until a few days ago, when the doctor had reported signs of sluggish behavior.

She was pretty sure the doctor had been hired (kidnapped) to check up on her. It was good. Good that Claire was there to catch the little things. Slipping through cracks. Under floorboards. Left behind-- Bennett would find a solution. She would rectify the problem. That's the way a dollhouse works. Programmer and doctor checking each other's work. Keeping each other in check. Check. Checking. It was a game without winning. Just a game for playing. Bennett smiled and pulled a Go board from her desk drawer.

"Play me?"

--

Claire Saunders had never met a living soul who could beat her at Go, not that she played games with people often. (Ever.) She played against internet robots mostly, always on blitz setting, but the patterns were so simple. She'd always found it impossible to believe that this was a game of genius. In recent months, she'd realized that Topher had programmed her so that she herself was a Gobot, and she'd quit. Robots like her had more important things to do than play computer games against other robots. Now however, it looked like her skill might come in handy. It would be fun to beat a genius at something. Winning means playing and playing means you're real. Even if the game isn't.

"Alright." She said, and placed her first stone dead center with a satisfying clack.

--

She didn't mind her life really. It wasn't like she was depressed or anything. She was doing the best she could with the skills she had. An almost inhuman feat. She had time to herself and she had Bennett to talk to. Some days she pretended she was human, made small talk, asked the handlers about the weather. Pretended like she might go outside on her day off, pretended like she might see the city. Instead she'd retire to her room. Read fiction. She scheduled her day, she worked overtime, and the dollhouse gave her a raise, not that it really mattered. What would she do with the money? Sometimes she dreamed that she was in the chair. A faceless programmer was pushing her head back, wiping away everything and leaving her empty. She'd wake up silently and lie very still, trying to remember everything she could about herself, but it was like dreaming. The details started slipping away. Every time you remember remembering something, you're copying data. The probability of error increases exponentially. She couldn't afford it. Her memories - even her false ones - were all she had left to believe.

She slept with a scalpel under her bed. She'd been doing that ever since Alpha had cut up her face, so it must have been Topher's idea. This had bothered her at first, but then she'd realized that he'd been trying to afford her some small protection, and she did sleep easier knowing it was there. It was a good idea to have it, just in case.

"Make the most of what you've got. Fight for your beliefs. Change the world."

She rolled the scalpel over and over in her hands. Make the most with what you've got. She pulled up the hem of her skirt, this time it wasn't just to clear her head. It meant more. It meant being. She began to write.

Her peers often made fun of her at med school for her neat handwriting. "You're not a real doctor if we can read the reports." But it was a jest. She had been respected for her diligence. She'd never been careless because she understood the price. "Probably because Topher can't read anything that isn't spelled out in zeros and ones," she murmured, finishing her last line and wiping the blade clean. The text started at her hip and ran all the way down to the knee. It told the story of her birth. How Saunders and Whiskey and Claire had been made into a...something. A fantasy? A tool. She was just a big knot of loose ends.

She drew a little square, her own personal symbol for a paragraph break when she was saving space, and continued. She wrote about her phobias, her habits, she wrote about dancing ballet and playing violin. She wrote about the self defense classes she'd taken in her teens and how it hadn't helped. She wrote how strong she'd been when he'd slashed her face. How she'd called security before stitching up the wounds herself. She wrote about the body in Topher's office, they'd said it had been one of Rossum's reps coming to look around, but he'd looked so familiar. She had taken his name and his skills, but he, his himness, the thing that made him an individual, that was still lying there at the foot of the chair. It would never come back. Never be used again. There was too much blood to wipe away without making a mess so she took a shower. Hot water in fresh cuts is the type of pain that makes you cower against the bathroom wall while your skin gets used to the idea but Claire forced herself not to turn the water off. The pain was important. Part of being. More than a flashing light behind her eyes. Pain is something you can't just stop feeling because someone pushes your head back, because they make you forget. It'll still be there when you wake up new. It's a tether to her world. A world she's beginning to love. A world with people to talk to and play with. No letting go, not tonight. She climbs in bed and waits for sleep to come. After an hour, she changes tactics. Rummaging through a duffel she still hasn't unpacked. Pressed between some old teeshirts, she finds what she's looking for. A stuffed rabbit with glasses. Warn out and turning gray. She clutches him to her chest, then wonders what his real story is. Then she realizes, and she says his name softly in the dark. "Topher."


	6. Chapter 6

[Won't Catch My Crew with their Trousers Down]

When Claire walked into the office the next morning, there was a letter waiting on her desk. She picked it up, wondering who on earth would send her mail. Her curiosity was hardly worthwhile. It was from Lipman. Just a courtesy, telling her he'd gotten her report and to continue investigating the problem. Nothing useful. She applied band-aids and sent Athena to the house chiropractor for an adjustment.

By 10:00, there was a lull and Claire was on her way up the stairs with two cups of coffee. She needed company, even if company meant a rather vindictive scientist who was probably still sour about loosing at a strategy game the day before. Bennett was busy imprinting Ulises, but looked up and smiled at Claire, motioning toward the programming room. Claire tucked her legs up sideways. Comfortable in her usual chair, sipping coffee. A look of shock chased a smile across Bennett's face, distorting her features, and something in Claire's stomach lurched. She looked down at her bare knee where the text was visible for all to see and hastily pulled her skirt down but the damage was done. She held her breath, waiting for the confrontation, but it didn't come. Instead, Bennett made small talk, asked if Claire had finished her monthly active assessments yet, but Claire's answers were sparse and as soon as Athena returned, properly aligned and ready for an imprint, Claire fled.

She stayed in her office for several days. Sending memos whenever she needed to check a figure. The loss of a friend was a small thing compared to the hell she'd be in if her secret got leaked. Maybe if she stayed down here in her cave, Bennett would forget, forget her, forget her scars, and she'd be able to live quietly. That was the master plan, anyway.

To Claire's surprise, the master plan went to shit when Bennett showed up with a bloody forehead and a fist sized bruise on her temple. Claire didn't pry. How could she justify asking questions after Bennett had kept a secret for her.

A few weeks passed without any mention of cuts and bruises. They talked fully enough about everything else, though. Religion was a particularly popular subject. What people need to believe. A sort of fantasy of it's own. "Maybe that's why we hardly ever get religious clients" said Claire one day, scratching absentmindedly at her wrist and gazing at the monitor where the actives could be seen, still in their cells. "They already have something to believe in."

"Are you suggesting that the dollhouse is a religion?"

"Never. I'm suggesting that it's a substitute. Something to plug the hole sometimes left in those without faith."

"Are you a woman of worship Doctor Saunders?"

"Claire. And no. I will never worship my God."

Bennett nodded. "That's probably wise."

Claire looked up, startled. Bennett knew she was an imprint. "I'd better go." 

"Oh no, I didn't mean. Claire—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--" 

"It's fine. Really. But I do need to go. November has an appointment."

A few flights of stairs later, Claire pushed open her office door to find the doll already sitting on the table. "Good day." 

"November, how are you feeling?"

November put her hands to her head. Then she looked straight into Claire's eyes. A piercing look. "It hurts, here." 

"Can you point to where it hurts?"  
The doll waved her arms, indicating her entire body, then clutched her head again. "It didn't used to hurt when they changed us. I remember." Then she reached for Claire's hand. "I enjoy my treatments." Shit. Treatments. Pain. Click. Her stomach turned over.

"The programming room." 

November nodded, tears forming in her eyes.

"I want you to wait in my office. I'm going to end this, now. This abuse."

Bennett was playing with a new program. Claire leaned on her chair, looking over her shoulder. The programmer was writing brain code. A brain code to counteract the damage caused by severe pain. Administering band-aids to save her own ass.

"We need to talk." 

Bennett shut the monitor off and swiveled in her chair to face the doctor. "Is there a problem?" She pushed her glasses up on her nose, sniffed, then did a double take and reached for Claire's hand.

"What's wrong?"

Claire pulled her hand away and backed into the work bench where the C cube was sitting. She held up a finger before fiddling with the cube, looping the security feed so they could speak privately. Then she spoke in a low voice. "You're hurting them. You torture them again and again. That's your fantasy. Power. Control. Pain. I can't let you do it. Not anymore. I'm going to Lipman."

Bennett twisted her mouth and her right hand closed into a fist. Then she controlled herself. "The harm I inflict doesn't exist. You're not so lucky. It's all about perspective Claire. You're repeatedly abusing an active. What do you think she'll say when her term is up?"

"Doctor Saunders? Is this true?"

It was like falling and sunlight and open spaces. Lipman was standing in the doorway. Claire took slow breaths, mind racing. Trying to think of something, anything to explain the conversation he'd just walked in on. Bennett looked horrified. A small comfort that she never intended to sell Claire out, but it was all over now. Over. She'd be scrapped. They'd erase everything she'd ever been. They'd—Not they. Bennett. Bennett would be the one to push her head back. The only friend she'd ever had. "I'll never forget." Futile. Lipman had a device in his hands. The disruptor. It was already too late. There was a high pitched sound and she was drowning. Blood streaming from her nose, clouding her senses. And she'd wake up on the table. Wake up to see Bennett flipping switches. Change me.

There were voices in her head.

Why didn't you find out who you really used to be?

No one is their best in here.  
Whiskey?

Cut up my face  
How can I be my best now?

The best thing you can hope for is pity.

We don't have time?

How do I live?

How do I go through my day knowing everything I think comes from something I can't abide?

Nothing is what it appears to be.

She could smell the hospital before she opened her eyes. Hear the voices. Unfamiliar. Businesslike.

Don't forget. Futile.

She opened her eyes and sat up. She pushed the blankets aside and looked down at her bare legs. Smooth and unblemished. She clawed at her face, panicking.

Her scars were gone. 


	7. Chapter 7

[Home]

Adelle DeWitt sipped her tea and gazed fixedly at Claire's face. The Doctor was curled on the couch, holding her cup tightly. (As if the little green china piece could ever chase away the chill.) No. That's no the way this goes. I'm doing the right thing here. But she couldn't meet her superior's eyes. She focused on the table leg, letting the space she was in ground her. She'd told the whole story in a monotone. She had nothing to hide from this woman now. She had nothing. No time, no self, no footprint. Maybe all humans are motes of dust. May flies that might as well not live at all. She shouldn't take all this so personally. Everybody faces problems, everyone creates a means to an end. It's just, for most people, that means doesn't have a point of view of it's own. It was lucky that DeWitt cut off her train of thought before it spiraled lower into the black hole that is existential depression.

"You understand that the day will come when we will have to shelve your imprint? In the unlikely case that we recycle it, there may be modifications, and of course, a new body."

"I understand." She pulled the slip of paper on the coffee table a little closer and signed. That was it.

DeWitt lowered her cup, her eyes still fixed intently on the younger woman. "Why did you come back here?"

Her answer surprised them both. "Because this place doesn't exist."

"Ah, yes. A perfect match." The quirked eyebrow and slight smile didn't quite reach Claire, who was still too far inside herself to be coaxed into something like humor.

"When I--When you--shelve..." She shot DeWitt an awkward look, "Whatever money I have left, I want it donated to a battered women's shelter. I want it used to help people heal. After Alpha--"

"I'll make sure it's done." (And Claire believed her) "Are you ready?"

Pull the tooth before the numbness wears off. She was standing, her legs were walking her to the elevator. The doors were closing. Bing. I'm afraid of elevators, she reminded herself, but her pulse didn't quicken. Right now she could probably spill blood without feeling a thing, but she wouldn't. Not today, not tomorrow. Is that what being strong is?

The doors slid open.


	8. Chapter 8

[Lets be someone else for five minutes]

Topher is revising the last imprint of the evening. "Strong women-- just another service we offer."

"What's up with you?"

She's been asking him the same question for months.

"Done! Run the specs down to Ballard, will you?"

Ivy nods. "I still can't believe they've got Echo working again. So soon after her return. Don't you think we should run some tests or something?"

She's right, they both know it, and they're both too cowardly to bring it up with DeWitt. He doesn't want to analyze the situation because there's no information to be gained so he tries to think of something sarcastic to say to put her off, but he's saved the trouble when the elevator door opens.

Ivy gasps and says something but Topher isn't listening. He's watching intently, trying to read their lips. Boyd and Claire are talking. He can't see her face, but Boyd looked grave. Claire twists her hands behind her back, a rubber band snapping against her wrist. Topher cringes. He's not stupid. The exchange is short. Boyd has the last word and turns away. Claire stands frozen for a moment, DeWitt's hand gentle on her shoulder. Possessive. Shit. It's already too late, isn't it? They descend the stairs to her office which is just the way she left it, only now the reports are all dusty. Nobody ever reads those.

Topher tears his eyes away from her silhouette, just visible behind the fogged glass and wood panels. What the hell is he going to say to her?

Nothing. There's nothing he can possibly say, so he adds orange soda to the list on the refrigerator and scrambles his Rubiks Cube. Claire could solve one of these in 30 seconds. Less than 5 if her fingers could move fast enough.

An idea occurs to him and he grabs the cables from the imprint room, plugs them into an adapter which he plugs into his computer, attaches the cables to his head and opens a flash-version of the Cube.

"What are you doing?"

The cube's second layer is almost done. He's in the middle of an algorithm. If he looks up now, he'll loose his place and have to start over. "Ivy babe, I added some stuff to the grocery list..."

Silence.

Topher looks up. "Doctor Saunders?" He does a double take, cricking his neck. "What the hell happened to your face?"


End file.
